Recap:

Driven by Parvata Vardini’s revelations about his true parentage and Narobha’s treachery, Pasupati is consumed by vengeance. His mother reveals that Narobha murdered his father, Tungabhadra, using the cursed Keris. Pasupati, fueled by this knowledge, retrieves the Keris with the help of the loyal Nambi, setting a deadly plan in motion. Narobha is assassinated by the loyal Nambi, who is then immediately killed by Pasupati. However, Pasupati is then betrayed and murdered by Jeyasinghan, who usurps the throne.

Chapter 22/26: Uprising

Part 2/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’

Jeyasinghan was swimming in the Manvi River, near its source in the Madana forest. Butterflies and bees competed for nectar from clusters of jasmine blooms, while a peacock displayed its magnificent plumage, attempting to impress two peahens nearby. As the scenery glided past, Jeyasinghan reached the Padmanabhi natural spring, considered the river’s source.

Suddenly, he felt paralyzed, unable to swim despite his best efforts. Turning, he saw himself ensnared by the coils of two gigantic pythons, their bodies disappearing deep into the forest. Their heads remained unseen, and their massive forms filled half the forest, their scales shimmering in the sunlight as their bodies intertwined and slithered.

Terrified, Jeyasinghan struggled but couldn’t even inch forward. He tried to scream but couldn’t utter a sound. The pythons began to constrict, their coils tightening around him, causing excruciating pain as his bones threatened to snap.

The snakes reared up, their heads towering over him. To his horror, Jeyasinghan saw that the snakes had human faces – the faces of Brahmadasan Srikrishna, son of Pasupati whom he murdered, and Anirudhdhan Chandramurti, the son of Bharatan Paramesvara, the son of Narobha and Parvata Vardini.

Their faces were green, their eyes bloodshot and terrifying. As they opened their mouths, Jeyasinghan saw their crimson tongues flicking out, threatening to engulf him. He recognized them, a chilling realization gripping him.

Their fangs resembled keris, and rings adorned their necks like the conch bangles of the Pandya land. With a predatory grace, each snake positioned itself on either side of Jeyasinghan, their fangs slowly sinking into his neck, inflicting agonizing pain.

Screaming, Jeyasinghan awoke from his bed, drenched in sweat. The nightmare left him trembling.

On the day he murdered Pasupati, Jeyasinghan had been consumed by fear induced by paranoia. After the deed was done, he saw Sivappi, the eccentric old woman, hiding in the bushes nearby. She had witnessed the murder and was screaming in terror, her hair disheveled.

As the toddy wore off, replaced by the weight of his betrayal, Jeyasinghan knew he had to act fast. He stormed to his residence, used his men to seize the main palace, and took control. He gave the palace guards a simple, brutal choice: side with him or face death. Most yielded to his threats and swore loyalty.

Laughing victoriously, Jeyasinghan walked towards Pasupati’s home, his mind already claiming the queen of the man he’d just struck down. But there, blocking his path, stood Parvata Vardini. Her once dark hair now streaked with grey, unbound and cascading down her shoulders, she held a long sword, her stance radiating defiance.

“In all our history, no man in my family has ever touched another’s wife. If you want to shame yourself, face my sword! Either I win, or I’ll cut my own throat right here,” she declared, slamming her sword point into the ground. Her attendants quickly gathered around her, weapons ready. Tears streamed down her face, but her determination didn’t break. The Queen Mother of Taravati stood firm, like a mother hen shielding her chicks from a hawk.

“Narobha is burned to ash. It seems his spirit of wickedness lives on in you. If you truly desire to be king, act with courage, not like a lustful dog,” her voice resonated through the hall. Jeyasinghan, his arrogance deflated by her unwavering defiance, turned and retreated.

***

The following day, with the help of his Atharva Veda priest – since the regular priest refused to crown an unmarried man – Jeyasinghan declared himself king of Taravati and Durgavati. The coronation was a small affair, attended by only a handful of commoners and merchants. Parvata Vardini and her family pointedly stayed away.

Jeyasinghan often found himself reflecting on his actions:

‘I sought revenge for my father’s death and my own. But can I escape retribution? Has any kingdom ever survived such back-stabbing? What if I cannot escape the consequences? What if the next generation – teenagers like Brahmadasan Srikrishna or Anirudhdhan Chandramurti – seek revenge?’

The image of Parvata Vardini confronting him with her sword haunted him.

‘I’m sure she orchestrated both Narobha’s and Tungabhadra’s deaths. She seems innocent to his followers, but she’s cunning and deadly to those who threaten her. She disregarded her own husbands. Will she ever care for me?’

The following day, he exiled both princes to Durgavati, the kingdom on the other side of Mount Ranadhira – Srikrishna to the north and Anirudhdhan to the south, while keeping them under close surveillance. However, his paranoia continued to torment him. He couldn’t sleep well, always jumpy at any little noise.

The one who faces their enemy sleeps soundly, but the betrayer knows no rest.

***

On the anniversary of Narobha’s death, rituals took place along the Manvi River. All family gathered, including Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan. Afterward, Jeyasinghan, forcing a smile, invited the two youths to stay longer for a hunt the next day.

During the hunt, Jeyasinghan instructed Panbalan, his loyal aide and military head, to isolate and kill Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan, staging it as a tiger attack.

They rode out on horses, followed by slow ox carts carrying supplies, leaving the city, crossing border farms, and reaching the Ranadhira foothills. The king and the princes entered the rainforest.

“Prince, this path leads to a grassland teeming with striped rabbits, their meat tender and delicious!” Panbalan suggested. They agreed. Panbalan went first, then Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan, with Jeyasinghan last. The teens, no fools, noticed this leader-follower pattern. Despite the hunt, Panbalan didn’t offer them a bow and arrow, remained unused on his horse. Aware of Jeyasinghan’s nature, they exchanged knowing glances.

Reaching a flat grassfield nestled in the larger hill, they saw the sun-baked peak and the knee-high green patches on the slope. They dismounted, and their assistants gathered their tools – like glass lenses from Zhongguo, short dagger and bow and arrow from Tamil land – together.

“Look at this track,” Panbalan said, studying the grass. Jeyasinghan, Srikrishna, and Anirudhdhan approached.

“This is their usual path. We’ll set traps along it in several places and then hunt. We might get something by evening. What do you think?”

Anirudhdhan bent to examine the track, but Srikrishna heard the rasp of a sword being drawn – it was Jeyasinghan. Realizing the danger, Srikrishna kicked Anirudhdhan’s backside, yelling, “Ani, run!” He grabbed Jeyasinghan with both hands and shoved him down the slope.

The two princes sprinted uphill, deep into the forest, pursued by Panbalan and his guards. Running uphill was exhausting, and soon all were winded. But the princes couldn’t relax, feeling the constant gaze of Panbalan and his two men. Hiding behind the thick trunk of an ancient teak tree, Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan held their breath.

The jungle’s silence was broken by a cuckoo’s call, and then a Malayan ground pit viper emerged from the dry leaves, slithering directly towards their hiding place. Seeing Anirudhdhan, the snake flattened its body and began to rattle its tail.

Shocked, Srikrishna swiftly intervened, deflecting the cobra’s strike with his sword. He then swiftly slashed its neck. Anirudhdhan, stunned by Srikrishna’s quick action, hugged him in relief.

However, the commotion alerted Jeyasinghan’s men. “Heyyyy… Over there!” they shouted, rushing towards the princes.

Suddenly, Sivappi, the seemingly mad old woman, sprang from a tree branch, landing on one of the men and knocking him down. She then jabbed his eyes with her middle and index fingers. Another man, enraged, drew his sword and sliced her back, severing her arm, yelling in triumph. With a horrifying scream, she retaliated, but another sword strike brought her down.

Seeing their chance, Anirudhdhan quickly killed the soldier who had attacked Sivappi. Then, both princes hurried to her side. As Sivappi lay dying, she whispered, “Ratna….Ma.. Manju… Natha…” and pointed her one remaining arm towards the hilltop before she died.

“Oh, my mother,” Srikrishna’s voice trembled out of emotions, cradling her lifeless body. Anirudhdhan bowed his head in respect while Srikrishna’s eyes scanned for Panbalan, who had disappeared as his ambush turned against him. With Sivappi’s body resting on Srikrishna’s shoulders, they began their ascent of the hill.

—

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Note:

• This fiction is a retelling of a mythology.
• Images generated with ImageFx of Google Gemini.
• Awkward sentences are removed by AI for a smoother reading experience.